If Not For You
by Lucy'sDaydreams
Summary: Coming home wounded, staggering under the weight of broken ribs and split, jagged flesh pinched together with his violinist's fingers, Holmes bled and Watson could not keep his hands off him.
1. The First Time Holmes Spoke of Suicide

_**A/N: "If Not For You" is just a bunch of drabbles that have sprung themselves upon me, usually in math class. I've written most of the entire fiction already; I just need to find the missing pieces. It's like a puzzle, and I'm determined to do it right. I'll be posting them in pairs, so that there's some sort of substance here. The whole idea here is to show a series of pivotal firsts in Holmes and Watson's relationship. Enough from me, then. Carry on!**_

* * *

**The First Time Holmes Spoke of Suicide (pt. 1 & 2)**

"I've deduced, my dear Watson, that I will be," he paused. Smoke drifted up to the ceiling. "That I will be the death of myself."

Watson murmured back, fully absorbed in the paper. "What's that?"

"I said, Watson, I'll be the death of myself."

"Of course you will, old chap. You'll someday be the death of us all." He turned a page. Holmes patted down the tobacco in his pipe and continued as if Watson hadn't spoken at all.

"Strictly speaking, it's suicide."

Watson grunted softly. "Suicide, Holmes? That's a bit dramatic, even for you."

"Oh, no," said Holmes conversationally. "I may have no other choice. Drug overdose, perhaps. Very likely, in fact. Or a calculated slip off the windowsill. An experiment gone awry. The possibilities are endless, you know; especially when you consider the fact that I do, in fact, possess the most resourceful brain in all of London." A strange gleam appeared in his eyes. John didn't notice it.

"Why would that be your only choice, Holmes?" He turned another page, head swiveling, mustache momentarily bristling.

Holmes shook his head slightly, seriously. "If only you knew."

Startled by the sincerity of his tone, Watson looked up at him for the first time. Holmes sat with one hand gripping the armchair so hard his knuckles were white, his other hand clutching his pipe in the same death grip. His eyes were wide and surprisingly emotional. Suddenly he cleared his throat. "Must be off, old boy. I've got to..." he stood abruptly. "Deduce things."

The door slammed. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Watson stared after him for a moment, and then returned to his paper.

* * *

Later, when Holmes got home, the stench of sweat and alcohol clinging to him, it was as if nothing had happened. Watson sat by the fire and wordlessly rose to take care of Holmes. He changed his clothes and led him to his bedroom.

He smiled wryly at Holmes' drunken "What if you found me, Watshon?" as he tucked him in. The heavy sheets pressed down on Holmes comfortingly.

"I've already found you, Holmes. You're here, with me, and you're very drunk, and you're in your bed in need of sleep." Watson pressed a glass of water to Holmes' lips. He managed to swallow most of it, although the duvet got a nice soaking too.

Holmes waved his hand in circles. "No, no, no. You know what I mean! I mean, _found_ me." He drew his 'found' out immensely, somehow making it several syllables. Watson snorted.

"You're drunk. Go to sleep, Holmes."

Holmes grew aggravated. "No, John-- it is imperative that you understand what I'm trying to tell you. What if you found me dead?"

Watson froze for a moment, his heart suddenly seizing. Then he moved, continuing his actions: smoothing the sheets, adjusting the pillows. "I don't know, Holmes."

He burrowed under the blankets. His voice issued out, muffled and slurred. "What would you do without me?"

Watson stood in the doorway, staring at the man illuminated by the light shining through the doorway. Finally he replied softly. "I don't know, Holmes."

He shut the door, leaving him alone in the darkness.


	2. The First Time Holmes Thought of Love

**_A/N: This pair is set before the previous chapter. I thought I'd add it in after, but I think it makes more sense as a prelude. So just pretend like you've read this first._ **

**

* * *

**

"Why are you marrying her, John?"

Watson groaned internally. _Here we go again_, he thought. Aloud he said, "Holmes, you know very well why I'm marrying Mary. When you love a woman and she loves you, that is usually what you do. Of course, 'you' refers to the rest of the human population and not yourself, because you, of course, are exempt from loving..." Watson trailed off, trying to figure out why he said 'of course' twice in one sentence.

"You said 'of course' twice," Holmes pointed out unhelpfully.

"I am aware of that, Holmes," he snapped. He fiddled with his cane, tapping it against his shoe.

"And why would I be exempt from loving, dear Watson? I love many things." Watson snorted. "Oh, you don't believe me? I love a good book. I love my dog--"

"_Our_ dog."

"_Our_ dog Gladstone. I love my violin, and my pipe, and my waistcoat--"

"You mean my waistcoat."

"Watson, we have a system. Regardless, I love many a thing."

"Yes, Holmes, that is exactly the point. You love things, not people. You cannot marry a waistcoat, as much as you may love it."

"Of course not, Watson. That is just ridiculous. What would a waistcoat wear to a wedding? Another waistcoat, perhaps?"

Watson glared at him. Holmes sighed, and the amused smile that hung around his lips suddenly vanished. "Contrary to popular belief, I have, in fact, loved. I still do."

"Ahhhh," said Watson conspiratorially. "I know to what you are referring to. Holmes, I am surprised at you. Have you actually managed to convince yourself that your admiration for Miss Adler is enough to constitute as love?"

"I was not referring to Miss Adler, dear Watson," he said smoothly. "But let us say, for the sake of argument, that I was referring to Irene. What would I have to feel for her in order for it to constitute as love?"

Watson pondered for a moment. "Well, Holmes. Love is... Love is knowing how someone likes their tea without them having to tell you. Love is knowing exactly what a person means just by sharing a look. It's being constantly reminded of them by inane, every-day objects and instances to the point of being unable to focus on much else, but you don't really mind, for whatever reason. It's trusting them implicitly, and knowing that they trust you. It's when you're willing to fight a thousand men or jump in front of a bullet for them. Can you honestly say that this sounds like you and _Irene Adler_?" He regarded the detective over the top of his tea cup.

Holmes stared at him for a moment, with something like serious wonder in his eyes. "No," he said finally. "It sounds like us."

Watson snorted again and returned to his tea. "You're daft, Holmes."

* * *

Darkness dripped through the window in long trickles as the sun set. Watson stood at the table with his sleeves rolled up. He rummaged in his bag for a bandage. Holmes sat on a stool by the table, attempting to adjust his new stitches left-handedly.

"Holmes, stop it. You're going to ruin them and I'll have to re-do them again." Watson slapped his hand away. Holmes stilled his fingers. "Lift your arm." Holmes obeyed silently, allowing Watson to wrap the bandage around his upper arm and cover the stitches. "Do I even want to know what you were doing this time?"

Holmes smiled. "Probably not, old boy." A heartbeat. "You know, sometimes I hurt myself just so you'll take care of me."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He finished wrapping his arm and tied it off. "Why is that, Holmes?"

Holmes shrugged, and grimaced when it pulled at his stitches. "I may be biased, Watson, but I believe that you are the greatest doctor that has ever tended to me. Not that I've had many-- I tend to distrust doctors as a rule, as well as policemen and politicians, and barbers on Fleet Street-- but still."

Watson started, then abruptly leaned closer to Holmes to check his pupils. Holmes leaned away from him swiftly. "What are you doing? Stop that."

Watson grabbed the back of his head, and Holmes froze. Watson didn't notice. "I'm checking your eyes for signs of head trauma. You must have received a concussion or minor brain damage-- there's no possible way that you just complimented me, especially not in such a monumental manner."

Holmes managed a chuckle. He was acutely aware of the warmth of Watson's hand on the back of his neck, cupping his head, and he detached himself from it so as to better analyze it. "Just take the compliment, John."

Watson raised an eyebrow again and released his head. Holmes felt strangely cold, but shook his head and pushed the doctor away. "You're daft, Watson."


	3. The First Time Watson Became Aware of It

**A/N: Thank you, reviewers! You keep me goin' on my quest. ^-^ And I'm aware my format's changing slightly, but hey. These things happen. I'll keep uploading in pairs, but when they're substantial as a standalone chapter that's how they'll be uploaded. Happy reading!**

* * *

He remembers the exact moment he became aware of it.

It was late at night. Holmes had been sitting there, perched on the armchair he had dragged to precisely two feet in front of the dimly lit fireplace, with his right ankle resting on his opposite knee. His left arm was casually thrown clutching the armrest, stroking the fabric softly and minutely as he thought. His right arm was balanced on his right knee.

It was his wrist that caught Watson's attention. It was slightly bent, resting about two inches past where his arm touched his leg; his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the middle of his forearms. Golden hairs dusted it, and Watson could see a small band of freckles drunkenly dotting his arm.

The flames danced clumsily with their last dying breaths; determined to make the most of their fading time with this world.

Once he caught a glimpse of it, he couldn't look away. It was beautiful. There was no other word for it; any other phrase would lessen what it was, would never do it justice. There was just something so undeniably attractive in the way his skin smoothly sloped down, covering his nimble fingers in pale velvet, although Watson knew from experience that Holmes' hands were as rough as he could be.

That was it. There are nothing more; no marvelous windswept moment where, in a burst of light, everything was made clear, and he understood. It wasn't even something he hadn't seen before; after all, how could he _not_ have seen Holmes' wrist in all the time they'd been living together?

It was just a glimpse of a bent wrist in the right light, and a stirring in his belly that sent a red flag shooting up his spine.

The room flickered in the low firelight, and still neither of them moved.

Watson wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He was not blind to the twisted attractions of the detective; there was something in his manner that at once repelled one and drew one in. It was a quality that made it clear to many women that they could never change Holmes, although it hardly stopped them from trying. It offered so many romantic notions about self-transformation for the sake of love; about fixing the broken man that was Sherlock Holmes.

It always gave them such a shock to realize that Sherlock Holmes was the one broken thing that didn't wont of fixing.

He found himself reflecting on that glimpse of crooked beauty he had found in the detective every chance he got. If he was being honest with everyone, he thought about it just to think about it; he kept it close as a reminder that beauty was everywhere, if one was only so bold as to look for it.

If he was being honest with himself, he kept it close because it was just the first of many, many things he discovered were attractive about Holmes. If he was being completely honest with himself, he knew he was getting into something he should never have even known existed in the first place. If he was being utterly and entirely honest with himself, which only happened on the rare occasions that he became drunk enough to actually-- dare he even think the word?-- _fantasize_ about Holmes, he kept the memory close to him because it marked the first moment when he realized there was more to what he felt for him.

In other words, there was more than just brotherly love and affection present here.

Watson actually had _feelings_ for Holmes.

And he knew that if he was aware of it, as blind and naive as he could often be, Holmes would have already been for a long while.

* * *

**Drop us a line! See the shiny review button below? Click it!**


	4. The First Time Holmes Kissed Him

**A/N: I know it seems a bit abrupt from Holmes' side, but the next chapter(s) should explain it. So, let us proceed.**

* * *

When he thinks about it, Watson can never remember why they were fighting in the first place.

Something he said had upset Holmes. It was something silly, an unremarkable remark casually tossed at him, a glancing blow.

Holmes took it to heart. It was so unlike him to let a jab like that get to him that Watson immediately stopped to investigate. It was as if he had uncovered the tiniest crack in the mortar between two pieces in a tile wall and was slowly sliding his knife in, wriggling it around, prying the tile free, just to see what was underneath.

Watson never knew what to do when Holmes got like this. That particular night hadn't been the first time that happened. It was just so rare to experience. It was as if he dammed all his emotions up to keep them out of the way, to enable himself to function the way that everyone expected him to, to play the part of the detached and brilliant and misunderstood detective Holmes.

The only time he let them out was instances like these. The floods would come and Watson's mustache bristled as he was swept along the tide. Holmes was consumed by it. It was both terrifying and ultimately passionate; seeing him like that made Watson's skin itch in ways he was determined not to pursue.

Watching Holmes come undone like this, even in the smallest way, though, never failed to leave him breathless.

Watson recalls drinking something strong, maybe bourbon. He had set his glass on the edge of the desk, and in the middle of Holmes' not inelegant, albeit emphatic, declarations he had gesticulated wildly and knocked it over.

The glass shattered on the floor between them and sliced through the shouting. The alcohol spread like blood welling from an open wound. The air was charged with some great hulking thing; the tension was so thick Watson suddenly felt he was choking. Holmes stared at Watson intently, uncharacteristically uncertain, chest heaving. Watson stared back at him.

He felt something shift, a great cosmic piece sliding into place, a slow, faint burst of thunder echoing in his head as it hit the bottom of the barrel.

Inside he was churning. _No, John. You will not let this happen. You will not let him win. You will not be that man._ His breath caught in his throat and he struggled to regain control of himself.

"John--"

"That was my favorite glass." It was a stupid thing to say and he knew it, but he had to distract himself. He had to distract them both, before something irreversible happened.

A heartbeat. "What?"

"That was my favorite glass, Holmes. You broke my favorite glass."

Another heartbeat. "I-- I apologize sincerely for breaking your favorite glass, John."

The silence stretched between them, pressed upon their ears. Watson suddenly could hear his heart beating in his ears, and there was a drop of sweat on Holmes' neck that made its way down, trickled over his collarbone, disappeared into his shirt-- he became aware that his palms were sweating profusely. A lock of Holmes' dark hair curled directly on one side of his forehead; Watson could see another drop of sweat sliding down it. He swallowed.

"Holmes--" And Holmes was there, just like that, roughly kissing him; his slender violinist fingers sliding into his hair, his perfect teeth biting his lip, nipping; his stubble scratching his cheek, a tongue swiping along his lips, Watson opened his mouth and it was electric, sparks flared into existence where he touched him and he couldn't breathe. The wall was hard against his back and Holmes was hard against his front, in every sense of the word, and abruptly Watson pushed him away.

Eyes darting, chest heaving, he turned slightly, pressing against the wall to distance himself from him. "I'm sorry," he said automatically. "I didn't mean to."

Holmes stared at him, hair askew-- _when had I touched his hair?_ Watson wondered-- a small half-smile on his face. "It's... S'fine. I don't know if you recall, old boy, but," he chuckled dryly, "I actually kissed you. So, er, it's... fine." He cleared his throat as Watson turned back to him angrily.

"No, Holmes, this is not fine. This is anything but fine, this is wrong and sick and immoral and twisted and perverted--" Holmes furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes and pushed him back against the wall, kissing him, silencing him, swallowing his protests, hands in his hair again and a knee between his legs.

Watson moaned and when Holmes pulled away he shut his eyes and continued. "It's wrong and sick," Holmes pressed up slightly with his knee and his breath caught, head falling back. "And I bloody well love it. God help me," he whispered before grasping Holmes between his strong hands and descending upon his mouth again.

* * *

**Did you absolutely hate it? I'm so sorry. Here, review and rage at me. vvv**


	5. Lightening and Thunder and Electricity

**A/N: Words cannot describe how fantastically sorry I am that this update has taken so long. My mind was an unfrenzied sea, and could not for the life of me be stirred into action. But lo and behold, an update on the horizon! I've just finished reading Ray Bradbury's _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ and I think that it's showing. To be honest, I am dreadfully proud of this chapter. So, without further ado; a new chapter awaits.**

* * *

Holmes, of course, remembers the precise moment he caught on to it. Watson's slick fingers encircled his wrist and squeezed lightly of their own accord. Those same strong fingers slid down, traversing the spine of Holmes' hand, seeking his knuckles one by one, tracing his fingernails, burning his flesh, incensing his veins, marking his skin, before finally falling off the cliff of Holmes' hand with a hundred whispered qualms. Entranced, Holmes flexed his digits slowly, testing the durability of Watson's molten touch. It did not fade, whatever he did.

Studying Watson's drunken face, Holmes saw that he was not aware of it. He marveled through his own dense haze of alcohol and searched again, harder. There was nothing there. Watson really did not know.

Holmes caught himself staring at Watson's shadow, as if to divine the name of this disease from its silent pantomimes. What exactly was it that Watson did not know? There was something there, Holmes was sure of it; but _what?_

Holmes' mind tricked and tossed and turned and pricked at his fingertips all through the night, long after Watson lay snoring under grimy sheets, alone in a cold bed.

When he woke up the answer lay curled on the forefront of his mind like a treacherous snake spring-loaded on granite. He felt the remembrance of Watson's touch rush through him, and he knew that there was more here than even he had thought. There was something that could not be denied but through denial itself. It was there in a flash and did not fade, and his knowledge of it was his downfall.

Holmes lived for that spark. It lay dormant in him, tendrils of shadows and traces of echoes extended towards his epidermis like a flower searching for the cruel sun. He needed to feel the electricity surge up in his soul again-- Holmes had never believed in a soul before, he had never had any reason to; but now, with these inescapable, impossibly huge feelings, he didn't think mere flesh and blood could contain this roiling need, this desirous ocean.

Holmes' elusive search replaced his seven-percent solution. Watson's spark was infinitely harder to obtain without detection, and therefore more suited to Holmes anyway. If ever Holmes felt the encroaching darkness brush the edges of his consciousness, if ever he felt the dismal prospects of existence approaching in the dimming light, all he needed was the brush of Watson's broad fingers, the heat of Watson's hands on his cool body.

It became simple, too simple. Coming home wounded, staggering under the weight of broken ribs and split, jagged flesh pinched together with his violinist's fingers, Holmes bled and Watson could not keep his hands off him.

Holmes gathered up this instances, these touches, and made a reserve within himself to tide him over. Holmes was not a cowardly man by any means (though Watson always characterized his immense bravery as mere recklessness, Holmes knew better,) but the notion of exposing the truth before Watson was ready-- or really, the thought of exposing the truth at all-- terrified him. So he sat in the half-shadow, and watched as Watson waltzed through women, ever the gentleman. He watched them all collide and explode into fiery rainbows, and when Watson was done and elegantly twisted away, she would fall and be left behind in his never-ending soldier's march. Watson turned Holmes silently green with jealousy, and when he returned, mustache bristling above his warm, oblivious smile, jealousy faded and Holmes felt quietly whole again.

Until Mary came along.

Her velvet touch and thin limbs, pink mouth and bright eyes darting merrily spelled disaster. Watson seemed no different with her than with any other woman of previous acquaintance, but whenever Watson mentioned her a part of Holmes was roughly wrenched halfway out of his flesh and his eyes reflected a dark turbulent sea.

* * *

That night, it was all too much. So many months Holmes had kept their secret from Watson-- it was funny to him how he could even do that in the first place. So many months, and an _engagement, _and Irene Adler, and now this _suffocation_--

Holmes' eyes swam with points of blurred light, and he could not breathe while the rushing water plunged him ever deeper. When the half-full glass smashed on the floor it was like a gunshot, slicing his vocal chords, rendering him dumb. Looking up, he saw that look on Watson's face and _knew_.

Holmes knew that Watson knew, and that realization set his blood afire.

Watson's shuddering, clumsy attempt at normalcy stoked the flames.

Like burning oil on water, Holmes tore across the room and swallowed Watson's words whole, and the lightening sparked to life within him, tracing his bones, shattering his teeth, and he had to have more, he had to see how far this would go and if he could get this would last forever-- but Watson pulled away, and the lightening raged within Holmes, seeking an outlet but finding none and bouncing back into himself, reflecting in a thousand dilated eyes, the mirrored surfaces of his organs shattering and rebuilding themselves with the force of all that Watson was. Even now the thunder roared in Holmes' ears, and he saw Watson's swollen red lips moving, and though he could not hear what he was saying Holmes knew he was apologizing. Holmes felt his own lips move mechanically, offering a quick remark to mask the fact that his mind was melting in the wake of Watson's storm.

He saw Watson's anger ignite, the electricity flowing in his eyes and Holmes couldn't stand being away from him-- He jumped and closed the space and pressed Watson into the wall and he just wanted him to shut _up _already, and _feel_ what he was doing to him. Holmes wanted Watson's fingers to catch on the lightening marionette strings pulling through his quivering bones and to know that he held the strings, that Watson was his reason for everything, and if Holmes could just make him understand that, if he could just carve a niche into Watson's skull and hold that understanding there for when the storm had passed so that they both knew it in the morning, undeniably-- Everything was _right,_ the puzzle pieces in place, and as Watson descended upon his mouth once more Holmes wildly expected the lightening to rip through and fuse them together, and he welcomed it.


	6. The First Time Holmes Does It

For some reason, Watson wasn't surprised the first time that Holmes did it. Teeth nipped his ear, and his lips brushed the shell as he spoke. Sweat slid down the back of his neck, down past where Holmes' fist was clasped in his hair.

"Tell me you love me," Holmes demanded. "Do you love me, Watson?"

Watson exhaled sharply, "Sherlock..."

"Tell me." Holmes stopped moving.

Watson growled low in his throat. "Holmes..."

He rolled his hips. "Tell me you love me, Watson." Holmes' breath hot in his ear. A heartbeat. The sheets tangled around Watson's foot. The sweat dripping off Holmes' neck, onto the sheets. Watson's heart beat. "Tell me you love me. Please."

"Shut. Up. Holmes." Watson grit his teeth. "You know I can't."

Holmes grew quietly frantic. "I need you to say it, John." He rolled his hips again, thrusting hard.

Watson groaned. "You know that I do," he whispered. "Why must I say it aloud?" He kissed him to swallow his complaints and at the same moment thrust against him. Holmes moaned into his mouth and involuntarily moved again. Watson closed his eyes in relief, and thrust against him again.

They were lost among sensation, and when their minds worked again and Watson crossed the room to throw the window open, Holmes lit his pipe in bed. When their eyes met across the sea of things unsaid, Watson looked away first.


	7. Wherein Watson Makes a Decision

Watson woke to Holmes running his hands over his limbs, slender fingers pinching and poking and prodding him, tugging on his hair and tracing the contours of his face. He woke to Holmes' lips on his and Holmes' tongue running along his teeth, up to the roof of his mouth. He woke to the scratch of Holmes' stubble against his mustache and his fingers intertwined in Holmes' thick hair, and he didn't quite know how they'd gotten there. Watson made a noise in his throat and Holmes pulled away, guilt evident in the widening of his eyes, lust evident on the languid brush of his tongue over his top lip.

"I need to talk to you," Holmes whispered feverishly by way of apology. The moment stretched taut, holding out until the silver scissors flashed and their world was rent asunder. Watson shifted. The bed dipped and Holmes was there, hip to hip, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

Watson swallowed and rolled onto his back. "What time is it, Holmes?" His voice was still rough with sleep.

"High side of three," Holmes answered. Watson's lungs seized and his breath came heavily.

"Are you still going to marry her, John?"

Watson shut his eyes tightly. The darkness behind his eyes ebbed and bobbed and threatened to consume him. He wished it would. He exhaled slowly.

"I cannot think of a suitable reason not to do so, Holmes." He felt Holmes grow dim, but he did not desist.

"What am I to you, Watson?" John did not fail to note the reversion in name. He felt Holmes turn his head. He could not bring himself to do the same.

"I cannot rightly say, old boy," Watson managed softly, eyes trained on the ceiling. "When it comes to matters of the- of the heart, I find myself uncustomarily inept where you are concerned." Holmes' eyes left marks on Watson's face, dark bruises of suffocating hope to brush thumbs over and push down on, embedding this _thing_ into his skin. His jaw ached.

"I... but you-" Holmes tried haltingly. Watson thought of the stars in India, hanging huge and bright in the sky like grapes. That's what he missed most, what he hated about London. He was so young under those Indian night skies, all sweating and bruised and bleeding and afraid, of losing more lives- of losing his own life. But the stars made him feel small again, made his life feel manageable. Made him aware of his own insignificance. It was the only thing that made him feel safe then.

Suddenly Holmes' warmth was gone, and his voice was faint. Watson couldn't tell if he was more angry or saddened, but he supposed it really didn't matter.

"Good night, Watson. I apologize for waking you with my clearly misguided queries. I'll thank you to put them from your mind and permanently erase them from your memory. I'll not bother you again."

Watson raised himself on one elbow and just looked at Holmes. There was ink along Holmes' jaw and up the side of his face, streaked across his temple, and Watson knew he'd find it wrapped around strands of his hair and on his fingers. The door slammed behind him.

He didn't want this life for Holmes. Holmes didn't believe in a soul, in a life after death- but John did. And what they were doing- it was wrong. No matter what Holmes said, it was wrong. But Watson didn't believe it was too late to save him. And he had to protect Holmes. He always had protected him, sewn him up when he came home mangled and bleeding- Watson had always been there with his sword-cane and revolver to keep him out of true harm's way. And the sins they were committing in bed with each other were more harmful than anything Holmes had ever encountered. If this continued, God would never forgive either of them. Holmes may want this life for himself but he could not be trusted to make that decision.

And so Watson would do what he had to do to save him. He would marry Mary and put an end to this once and for all. Soon. He would do it soon. And then Holmes would be safe.


End file.
